


anything is hard to find

by Amelinda



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Good Tom Riddle, M/M, Tomarry Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelinda/pseuds/Amelinda
Summary: When Tom discovered he could chat with the scaly adders slithering around his manor home, his small heart swelled with excitement. Father, however, did not think so highly of his talents. He demanded that Tom never let another soul know what he could do.And so, he didn’t. He went on in life, became an investment banker, and livened his boring existence with cocaine and alcohol and the London nightlife. If not for an unlikely meeting with a group of robed freaks -- as well as the persistence of a petulant green-eyed pretty boy -- he perhaps would have never learned that he was, in fact, a wizard.





	anything is hard to find

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! This was hastily written for Tomarry Big Bang 2017, and it is by far the sweetest, least disturbed Tomarry you'll ever see me publish lol. I hope you enjoy it!

With the hum of a hangover buzzing behind his dark eyes, Tom slouches down a pew seat in Godric Chapel, sincerely hoping that none of his former professors rear their heads. That would just top things off spectacularly, wouldn’t it? He scans his surroundings. The sparsely occupied room is fit for the noonday lecture. It emanates an ecclesiastical vibe, ideal for starry-eyed seminary students to gather and drone on about that holy book Father loves so dearly. It is truly ironic that the lecture be held inside a church, as Tom’s currently paying for the sin of his late-night indulgence. He grazes his knuckles along the cheaply papered wall and collects a thin layer of residue.

The pew bench creaks with the addition of another body. Tom furtively casts a sideways glance. He’s a cute, bespectacled thing with dirty trainers and boyishly disheveled black locks. Tom frowns. He looks a bit reminiscent of the thing Tom came to this shanty hall to forget.

Tom shifts his gaze to the empty lectern and remembers all too clearly what happened last night.

Wellington Osborne is the campest, dimmest twat Tom befriended at Oxford, but when his text delivered with the promise to relive their glory days, Tom hightailed the M40 out of London -- an utter mistake. Three glasses of Moscato into the night and the bloody tosspot was moaning about his wife and newborn babe. Osborne fantasized about cheating on her for ages, apparently, and hoped the resultant drama could bloat into a divorce and interrupt his desperate heterosexual lie. Listening to him was so tedious, his otherwise pretty face contorted while he keened and sobbed.

Tom still fucked him, of course.

But it was far more sordid than it needed to be, and not half as pleasant as it was eight years ago, before Barclays ushered Tom to trek his dreary path to early retirement. He hates his job. He would have rather studied history, which is how he justifies staying in town for another night, to see a lecturer discuss trans-historical themes from the Merovingian kings. The advertisement for the lecture -- an odd sheet of paper, dyed beige with inky handwritten print -- flew in the wind and landed perfectly in his hand as he paced the campus grounds. It was a bit gimmicky for his tastes, but with his life held hostage in a five by five cubicle sixty hours a week, he supposes the kitsch novelty of it amuses.

“Excuse me?” says the boy ons his left.

“What?” Tom questions sharply. Extended in the boy’s hand is a wallet. Tom’s wallet. Tom first snatches it without second thought but then, minding his manners (or at least the tireless years spent having them ingrained), remembers to mutter, “Thanks. Must’ve slipped out of my pocket.”

“Yeah, I reckoned as much.”

It’s nothing new for something to fall off him randomly. He’s rather accustomed to such strange peculiarities, like books tumbling off shelves when he becomes irate and objects flying to his hands when he is alone and concentrating quite determinedly. It sounds mad, he knows. Father threatened to chuck him in a sanatorium back when he was just a lad, when he spoke too casually of his afternoon chats with adders in the garden. Since, he’s learned to ignore his strangeness, suffocate it and pretend it isn’t there. And it’s easy enough, isn’t it? Not long after Father’s madhouse threat was made, Tom discovered other means to satisfy his provocateur instincts, like snogging boys in dusty Eton corners and pilfering liquor from locked cabinets. The latter task, admittedly, required a bit of his strangeness, but with a bent bobby pin intentionally left on the counter, no one suspected fouler play than normal adolescent tricks.

He does sometimes wonder why he can perform such feats. Religious drivel may weave together a passable explanation, but pure guesswork is unreliable, and he’d rather not associate himself with Satanic pacts, thanks.

Best not to pay it much mind. Instead, he returns his attention to the room, which grows with more occupants funneling through the narrow, propped entrance door. He slowly realizes that this must not be a normal lecture at all. Aside from himself and the young man beside him, the motley assortment of people, young and old, wear a ghastly array of long, old-fashioned robes. Has he stumbled into a cult meeting? And at Oxford, of all places? Really? Tom scowls and eyes the boy again, checking for a sign of discomfort in who appears to be the only other sane person in the room.

But the boy sits casually with his hands folded on his lap, as though this was all ordinary. Tom bends over and clears his throat lowly. “Is this a… convention, of sorts?”

The boy smirks, a hint of bemusement overcoming his features. “What makes you ask?”

Tom blinks and gestures with the jerk of his head toward the robed dolts. “Well, you see, it’s not every day you find a bunch of adults in fancy dress for a guest lecture on Procopius.”

At this, the boy assesses Tom wearily, looking up and down him. Then, more to himself than to Tom, he whispers, “I thought Muggles couldn’t see Godric Chapel…”

“Muggles?” Tom repeats. “Excuse me?”

A sudden, sharp booming crack startles Tom. His head snaps to the front of the room, where the noise seemed to originate, and he shudders at the sight -- a man in a long, brownish gown is now standing beside the lectern. He was not there moments ago. Tom is certain of it. He looks wide-eyed between the unexpected man, the other guests and, with an imploring expression, at the boy. 

But the boy raises a thick, dark brow at Tom instead, as if he were the problem in this situation.

“Welcome, everyone!” shouts the man at the front. His broad smile creases the torn flesh of a deep scar down the side of his cheek. This does nothing to soothe Tom’s suspicion that this is a very, _very_ strange and dodgy meeting. “I’m Professor R. J. Lupin, the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor at Hogwarts and a visiting professor for Oxford’s summer program on werewolfry.”

Tom sinks his hand into his trouser pocket and fingers nervously for his emergency switchblade. He peeks over at the boy, whose bright green eyes remain trained on him.

“As most of you know, I’m here today to provide context to the Byzantium Werewolf Rebellion of 540. It was once thought that the sole surviving historical record of the rebellion came from Procopius’s final work, _Princeps Creaturae_ , but my recent journeys into old Syrian archives led me to a rather different conclusion. I even managed to pick up a few rare medieval scent smells while I was there.” He reaches into the fold of his robes and pulls out a smooth sliver of wood. With a swish, it begins to pour a stream of fluorescent mist into the room. A thick and cloying perfume of spiced oil spreads with the shimmering cloud.

What is this? A magic trick? Is this air poisonous? Tom shan’t stick around to find out. He quickly pulls his collar over his nose, grips his switchblade tightly and, while cautiously unsheathing his small weapon, bolts from his seat and dashes toward the exit. The soles of his black leather brogues slap loudly on the linoleum floor as he sprints down the chapel corridor, straight toward the ornamental doors that led him to this ominous freak show. He bursts through them with a painful slam, then hops over the layered stone stairway with Olympic expertise -- a feat he would not be capable of without the vicious swell and pump of his adrenal glands.

The switchblade flies out of his hands as his knees crash on a broad patch of turf, toes bent forward and hands outstretched, just inches safe from eating a mouthful of grass. Tom uses the moment to catch his breath and rationalize what he’s witnessed.

“Hey!”

Tom gathers on his haunches and peeks over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the green-eyed boy. Oh, what the bloody fuck has he gotten himself into? Tom doesn’t spare a heartbeat before jumping up and taking off once more, desperate to reach the public park just beyond the trees, where someone can alert the authorities.

“It’s alright!” the boy continues to shout, voice shaking as he chases his prey.

“Get away!” Tom pleas.

“Look, it’s alright!”

The voice is closer. Tom peers over his shoulder again, horrified to discover the boy has nearly caught up and that he’s holding a sliver of wood like the so-called professor held.

Jesus.

It’s hopeless. He’s going to die. He lost his switchblade, he has nothing to protect himself with, no one to save him, nowhere to hide…

Several meters to his right lies a fallen oak bogue. He needs to grab it, but the boy will catch him too soon. He’s much too fast, and the damn thing is well beyond reach.

Or at least, it should be. He shouldn’t be able to do what he’s about to do.

But then in the final stages of primal fear, it is like a puppet master steals the reigns of his will and he becomes a marionette, arms extending and his fingers unfolding expectantly. Reflexive words escape his mouth before he can think: “COME TO ME, STICK!”

A branch from the bogue snaps and hurls itself toward Tom, who grasps it with both hands and twists on the spot, holding it threateningly as if it were an overlarge baseball bat. “Stay back!”

The boy stops in his tracks and takes a compliant step backward, opening his empty palm in truce while lowering the wooden sliver. “Calm down, mate. I didn’t mean to startle you. Your name’s Tom, is it?”

The hairs on Tom’s neck stand straight. “How do you know my name?”

“You dropped your wallet, remember?” he explains calmly. “I checked the ID, making sure it was yours. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My name is Harry Potter and I’m an auror trainee. I swear I’m not going to hurt you. Now, would you put that down already?”

Tom doesn’t move. “What’s an auror, then?”

“I work for the Ministry in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You do know what the Ministry is, don’t you, Tom?”

Tom's fingers constrict tighter around the dry bark. "What’s this rubbish you’re talking about?” 

“Er…” Confusion bleeds through Harry's expression until, with brightening eyes, his stare transforms into something else: realization. He smiles. “I think I know what’s going on here. How did you hear about the lecture today?”

Tom narrows his gaze curiously. “There was an advertisement.”

“On a bit of parchment?” Potter asks.

Tom nods.

“Right,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Never thought I’d be in this position, to be honest. I’m guessing you can do things that you don’t understand.”

He looks between each of Potter’s lensed eyes, examining them carefully for a hint of deceit. “What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m probably not the right person to tell you this, and it’s probably not exactly the right moment to say it, but…”

“But what?!” Tom shouts. He tosses the branch behind him, chest rising rapidly as he imagines what Potter will say next. 

There is something Potter has -- something everyone in that room has -- that Tom has, too.

“Well…” Potter chews his bottom lip and crosses his arms. “You’re a wizard. I mean, usually we’re able to find magical children born to non-magical families. But sometimes things go wrong, I suppose.”

“A wizard,” Tom says slowly. He declines his neck and reflects on his fingers, long and spindly. Their history flashes within his mind: Twenty-nine years of picking locks without tricks and burning leaves without matches; more than half his life, spent lying to himself. The tips of his fingers blur out of focus as he considers the boy behind them. Harry Potter peers back innocently, his face fresh and smooth, his handsome lips crookedly upturned.

Tom exhales, pockets his hands, and converts his bemused expression to indifference with expert precision. “Right. Would you be willing to explain what this means, exactly?”

* * *

“What do you think?”

Tom gives Potter an empty glance, nose raised high. “Quaint.”

Both men smirk knowingly at each other, then continue down the cobblestone pathway through Diagon Alley. The midday bustle of the quirky wizarding markets reminds Tom of a scene stuck in the style of two centuries past, when London stood on the precipice of industrialization. The architecture of the town is modest and queer, and some tall buildings slant precariously as though held up by magic alone. There are broomstick salesmen shouting their deals, animated wanted posters for “dangerous Dark wizards” and cauldrons set behind dull drapery in a large display glass. It all adds to Tom’s sense of utter disbelief and awe, but he doesn’t give his new companion an indication of apprehension.

“I must admit that this is more than strange,” Tom says coolly while watching a little long-nosed misshapen person walk by in green robes. The people here are different, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, reckon it would be,” Potter admits. “I’m not sure I’m doing the responsible thing right now. My mum comes from Muggles, so I get that this is probably a bit unnerving.”

Unnerving? It is in some ways, Tom supposes. He awoke this morning to a stupid handwritten “I’m-sorry-we-fucked” note from a married schoolmate, thinking the highlight of his day would include hitting a few lines with the skinny Brazilian near his flat.

“Frankly, this is all too mental to warrant a normal response.” Tom gestures toward a faraway mother surrounded by floating candies and greedily-reaching children. “But I guess it does answer the questions I’ve always had.”

Potter sighs wearily. “About that… Maybe we should hit up Fortescue’s and talk it over. You like ice cream?”

“I don’t dislike it.”

The two shuffle into a timber-framed shop with a sign held on a chain, reading: “Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour.” The greeter, a toothless woman in dark robes who looks every bit as witchy as a child could imagine, ushers them to a splintery table and hands out paper menus. Tom immediately notices the prices are not in pound sterling or even euros, but in _knuts_ and _sickles_. He slides it to the side and snorts. “I have an idea. How about you tell me a little more about yourself? I’ll happily return the favor.”

Potter looks over the menu and nods his head. “Yeah, of course. I’m Harry Potter, I’m twenty-two years old, and I’m training to be an auror. Which is sort of like a wizard cop.”

“Ah, a _cop_ ,” Tom muses, smirking. “Interesting. What about your parents?”

“Dad’s an auror too, and my mum’s potioneer. I was brought up in the West Country before going to Hogwarts.”

Tom raises a suspicious brow. “Hogwarts?”

“It’s the main school here in Britain for young wizards and witches. Everyone whose born magical is sent a letter when they turn eleven, no matter if they come from magical stock or not.” He idly tugs at his bottom lip, looking at Tom intently. “Have you always lived in Britain?”

“Yes, I -- ”

“What can I get you?” comes a breathy voice. The young waitress stands at the table with a feather, a stretch of paper and a vacant smile.

“I’ll take the lot.” Potter holds the menu out to her.  “One scoop of each, please.”

“Limited or deluxe?”

“What’s the diff… ah, forget it! Deluxe must be better, right?” He gives a sort of nervous chuckle. “Hope you’re hungry.”

When the waitress stalks off, Tom’s lips purse. “There are more than twenty flavors on this menu.”

Potter shrugs. “Guess I want to give you a proper introduction to the wizarding world. Ready to tell me more about yourself, Mr. Riddle?”

“Certainly.” Tom smiles sharply. “As you know, I’m Tom Riddle, twenty-nine, and I work as an investment banker in London.”

“And northern, are you?” he spots. “Hear a bit of an accent.”

“Yes, but spent most of my time in the south.”

“And your parents?”

Tom pauses. Father flashes into consideration. How will _he_ respond when he’s told about all of this? “My father is a philanthropist, among other hobbies. My mother died in labor, but if magic is heritable, then I think it must’ve come from her.”

Potter shakes his head. “Magic _is_ heritable, but it doesn’t have to be direct. Some people, like my mum, are born to two non-magical people.”

“But if there are others without magical parents,” Tom inquires, “then why aren’t there more people like me?”

“That’s the thing. All kids get a letter. I don’t know how it works exactly, but it always does. For Muggle-born kids, Hogwarts sends a representative, someone to explain the circumstance.”

A speculative explanation sparks in Tom like eruptive magma, and his fingers twitch at the possibility that what he suspects is, indeed, true. He quells it at once. He is accustomed to this burst of rage, and from years of practice, equally accustomed to burying it deep inside, out of reach. If Father had something to do with this--if by some bloody twist the answer to his question was there all along--then the flame will burn, unbidden and unstoppable. There is no understanding it now, however. There is only learning, listening.

“Tell me more about Hogwarts.”

Potter beams and dives into a lengthy description of Hogwarts School, a castle hidden from Muggles in the highlands of Scotland. The story unfolds in Potter’s pleasant rasp and there’s almost too much nonsense to take in: There are Houses and ghostly mascots and a poltergeist. (Tom knew he wasn’t hallucinating when he saw that specter on holiday in Ibiza!) It sounds all too exciting and brilliant, until Potter discusses the subjects that are taught at Hogwarts. Potions. Transfiguration. Astronomy. More things Tom’s never heard of, though if he is as much a wizard as Potter is, he _should_ have.

“Can you teach me?” Tom asks suddenly.

Potter blinks, taken aback. “Teach you what, exactly?”

“Magic,” Tom responds simply, thinking his intent should be obvious.

“I, uh…” A blush surfaces on his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, I can try to teach you as much as possible. I can also find you some tutors, probably get you a job at the Ministry.”

Tom doesn’t have a moment to comment before a square platter drops onto their tabletop with a faint thud. Levitating above the silver tray are multiple small, golden trimmed bowls, each filled with a unique scoop. A selection of flavors, huddled toward the center, seem to be the usual suspects – vanilla, chocolate, strawberry. As for the others, Tom can say nothing more about them than a polite, “Oh.” A brownish, sloppy one moves itself from side to side as though it were the tide of a swamp, and just beneath Tom’s nose, a blood-red mixture pulses in the porcelain, reminding him nastily of a beating heart.

“This one’s Drooble gum,” Potter points to a pinkish shade, then at a murky green, “that one’s goblin stew, and that’s dragon egg, and that’s sweet warlock berry. No, Tom, don’t!”

The bowl of pulsing, reddish cream speeds its palpitation.

“I didn’t do anything!” Tom bellows.

“Don’t look at it!” Potter reaches across the table and takes Tom’s chin, pushing up until their sights are level. Perhaps a little too coquettishly, Tom bats his eyelashes and smirks, brown eyes occasionally flickering down to the hand invading his space.

“Sorry,” Potter apologizes briskly, olive skin positively feverish as he redacts his touch. “It doesn’t like it when you stare at it, should’ve guessed _that’d_ be on the deluxe menu.”

“What is it?” Tom doesn’t dare spare it another glance. Potter sets it beneath the table with his face squeezed tightly, then sighs heavily once it’s hit the floor.

“Don’t worry, it’s just regular ice cream that’s been charmed to do that. It’s my fault for not warning you.”

“What would it have done?” Tom asks grimly, sneering at the untrustworthy treats in front of him. He’s not sure magic and food is a combination he much approves of.

“Oh, nothing too bad,” Harry reassures, picking up two shiny spoons and offering one to Tom, who takes it skeptically. “It’d just explode with red caramel pus. Kids love it.”

“Right.”

Despite the questionable start to their ice cream testing, the following hour passes without confrontation from the other assortments, and the two wind up in eager conversation. Harry Potter is not an overwhelmingly interesting man; he likes sports and warm weather, and to teleport to the top of the Alps with his mates and race down the steepest slopes. He is, however, a very decent man, who quickly begins questioning Tom about his schedule, devising times for the two to meet and develop Tom’s knowledge. The kindly glint in the jade of his eyes reflects an honest soul.

Tom understands that he’s a rather attractive candidate for Potter’s game of little-big-brother. For one, he knows himself to be almost impossibly attractive, blessed with his father’s angled face and born with a charisma all his own. Since childhood he’s enjoyed the countless praises for his looks, and since adolescence he’s leveraged his natural giftedness at maths to win over the uglies who consider themselves above shallow qualities. And what about Potter? For what reason will he love Tom, as so many cannot help but do? It will be interesting to discover the answer to that.

“You know, our Ministry’s not too different from the Muggle one, I think.” Potter nods and clears his spoonful of what he calls ‘beetle mint’. “You say you work at a bank, right?”

“Well, basically,” Tom permits, not terribly interested in discussing his profession of all things.

“Could get you a job at Gringotts, maybe?” Potter speculates. “Which reminds me.”

Potter raises his sheen wand gives a tight flick, manipulating little, fat golden coins to fly from where he sits (presumably, from his pockets) and sending them to stack themselves next to the still-frozen servings of ice cream. Once they’ve landed at their spot, Tom counts twelve strange monies and remembers the prices on the menu.

“Are these sickles or knuts?” Tom asks, inspecting one closely. Engraved on the front is the outline of a wizard’s profile, pointy hat and all. He flips it to the other side and snorts at the image of a dragon.

Potter chuckles. “ _Kuh-nuts_ , the k’s not silent. But these aren’t knuts _or_ sickles. These are called galleons. They’re worth about five pounds each or so.”

“I see a lot of dragon references around here.” He flicks the bowl of dragon egg ice cream. “Is that a joke, or are there really dragons?”

“Oh, that’s not a joke,” Potter confirms. “I mean, those aren’t really dragon eggs in that ice cream of course, they’re endangered; that’d be illegal.”

A moment of quiet falls between them, though the chatter of the other patrons persists in polite volumes. It seems awfully banal that at this moment, among the first hours of Tom discovering his identity as a wizard, the two sit in an almost-ordinary ice cream shop, calmly discussing the existence of dragons and self-imploding snacks. There is a world out there -- a _wizarding_ world -- glistening brightly and urging Tom to take a dive into its depths.

No more hiding, no more excuses, no more bloody banking.

He smiles and leaves the parlor with Harry, eager to purchase a wand.

* * *

A week passes, and Tom returns to Barclays with a giddiness previously unknown to its sterile halls. He leaves within two minutes of voicing a resounding, albeit calm, proclamation: “You’re all a lot of twats and I quit.” Even that godawful American intern stops yapping and takes a second to gawk as Tom kicks a bin on his route out of the building. The barrage of worried voicemails he receives from his clueless father (whose _“very important friend arranged this job!_ ”) go unanswered. In the presence of magic, technology doesn’t work too well, and this suits Tom just fine.

“Lumos maximum,” Tom murmurs, brimming with delight as the tip of his wand emits a blinding glow in the darkness of his flat.

The luxury studio is a chaotic mess of his magical mishaps--an overturned dining table, a broken tea kettle, a crawling splatter of goo that hopped out of his cauldron, and two croaking, conjured frogs who leap confusedly around the disorder. He really must clean up before Potter arrives; tonight is the night Tom meets a special friend of Harry’s, a Muggle-born activist interested in employing Tom on a Ministry grant. Money is not a concern, of course, but when establishing contacts, it helps to not appear as a scrappy unpaid intern. He’s almost thirty, for Christ’s sake.

(Or as the wizards say, “for Merlin’s sake.”)

The open book flips pages as Tom flicks his hand, moving through them until he’s landed on the cleaning spells section. There isn’t much room in his mind to be upset. At least not now, with the world is so fresh and new. The overwhelming breadth of new materials he must cover, however, occasionally prompts the same bitter question -- if all Muggle-borns are told of their heritage, what happened with him? Why wasn’t he brought to Hogwarts? Why did he discover so late? He exhales. Then, for the umpteenth time, forces his mind back to the book:

_All Cleaning Charms require astute attention to detail and an attitude of determination._

Determination. He can do that.

In fact, by the time Harry’s _crack_ and knock sound outside of Tom’s front door, the flat is impeccably clean and gourmet delivery rests on his granite tabletop. No one need know he offed the frogs with a bit of Muggle brutality. He welcomes Harry and the guest into the suite, sixty square meters of marble flooring and low-hung chandeliers bought at a price that could feed a small orphanage for a month. Her thick, bushy brown hair nearly touches the door frame and a striped pantsuit contours her thin physique. Not styled too well, but she has a pretty face. A petite hand comes with a name Tom’s already learned through Harry: “Hermione Granger.”

“Tom Riddle,” he returns.

The table is set formally in a proper English manner, fine cutlery carefully arranged as it well should be. The pomp of posh gestures did not appeal to him during his younger days, yet he often reflects nostalgically on the hours spent in finishing school. Better his than Harry’s preferences, which is to eat all indelicate foods by hand. Two days earlier, when Tom chided his new friend for the profoundly disgusting habit, the younger man merely smirked. Cheeky prat.

“Try to use a fork and knife like us civil people, won’t you, Harry?” Tom requests facetiously while placing craft bowls of seafood and dinner rolls.

“I did that _one_ time!”

“I wouldn’t equate hand-eating with uncivility,” Hermione says bluntly, on the edge of defense though not quite there.

Oh, great. A do-gooder.

Tom smiles easily. “Forgive me. I’m happy to have you here, Hermione. Harry tells me you’re a very capable young witch.”

Her dark cheeks redden. “That’s nice of him to say.”

Harry loudly clangs his knife on the plate, using too much force to scrape off the crab. He snorts at his mistake. “Er, knife’s a bit heavier than I thought. Everyone knows Hermione’s incredible, you’ll be in good hands with her.”

“Yes,” Tom says, “I’d be interested in hearing more about your proposal, Hermione. I understand you work in the Office of Muggle Relations.”

She nods. “That’s right. You see, the Ministry is quite interested in studying individuals such as yourself. Few wizards stumble into adulthood without meeting another wizard, especially those who displayed magical feats as children.”

A gulp of water melts the unpleasant lump in Tom’s throat. He knows where this is going, unfortunately.

“We’d like to study you -- _anonymously_ ,” she assures, “and consult the Headmaster of Hogwarts, figure out how you managed to stay off our radar. Then we’d follow up with studies of how you adapt to magic. Questionnaires, medical screenings, things of that nature.”

“I see.”

He’d be little more than a test subject to them.  

“Of course, you’d be fully compensated for your time.”

“Mm hmm.”

“And you retain the right to back out of the study, should you ever want to for any reason.”

“It sounds like a good opportunity,” Tom lies.

If he must take a sprint on the hamster wheel, then by God, he’ll do it.

The all-too-familiar iPhone ring from Tom’s pocket interrupts a short break in conversation. He silences it the instant he sees that it’s Father calling, then notices a more interesting proposal within his messages: an hours-old text from the Brazilian, requesting Tom’s presence at a nearby nightclub. He slips the phone back without responding.

“How are you taking to the wizarding world so far?” she asks uncertainly. “I didn’t know until I was eleven.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. I love it.” He glances at Harry, who’s smiling prettily. “Quit my job and started reading through everything I could carry from the bookshop in Diagon Alley. Still not confident I haven’t just dreamed it all up, though.”

She laughs. “Don’t expect that feeling to go away. I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, even after all these years. I can’t imagine being in your position.”

“I read that wizards live longer than Muggles.” Tom shrugs. “If I can make it to one-hundred, then I suppose the first three decades won’t have felt like much.”

The small encounter ends soon after, and Hermione is the first to bid farewell. Tom has no interest in the Brazilian -- far too blond and blue-eyed for Tom. But being that he is still _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ , still the last to fall asleep and the first to take a morning hit, the chance to fuck around until the sun creeps through London’s skyline seems a familiar end to the wildest, unlikeliest week of his life. Small comforts, no?

“You wanna practice a few spells before calling it a night?”

“Honestly?” Tom steps swaggers toward Harry, sliding one hand into his slacks pocket. “I’d love to. But I don’t want to call it a night so early. You ever hit up a Muggle club before?”

“Yeah, sure." Harry's grin grows, devilish. "But have _you_ ever hit up a Wizard nightclub before?”

Time never flew so quickly. One minute, Tom and Harry are practicing Vanishing Charms at the flat, and the next, Tom’s blood alcohol content places him somewhere between blackout drunk and dead, and he’s laughing at Harry’s redheaded friend, Ron, as he attempts a back-alley handstand on a Nimbus 2000. The thump of the club’s music resounds against the buildings as the onlookers chant, “Ron! Ron! Ron!” A scrawny little creature with bugged eyes and rags-for-clothes holds its ears and, by the looks of it, begs the wizards to be safe.

“Woah!”

Harry dives as Ron tumbles off the broom, catching him in his tight, sturdy arms. This encourages the small throng into an all-out frenzy of whooping celebration. The three lumber clumsily back into the club afterward, Tom grips Harry around the wrist and puts a lip behind his ear, whispering, “You’re very strong.”

He grins, unclasps his hold, and strides ahead of Harry without bothering to see the flustered expression; he knows how these finicky, chaste types are--desperate for affection.

The inside of the club blurs in shades of glimmering gold and galactic vapors, sparkles of light raining among the moshing crowd, the live band performing a song everyone but Tom seems to know.

Indeed, Ron especially. He thrashes his reedy arms franticly and roars, “THE CENTAURS MAY NOT TRUST US BUT I KNOW OUR LOVE IS TRUE!”

“Ron!” Harry yells over the deafening blare. “You’re pissed and shit at singing! Stop!”

Tom listens intently to the music, making out the baseline and snare, imagining how the music would flow from his fingers on the keys of his piano. It would resound with sophistication, beautiful and coherent, unlike this heinous jingle clashing painfully against a raw, grungy voice. He would love to see Harry’s response to a refined arrangement, considering how his young friend dances freely to this messy track, flailing and hopping without rhythm or a concern in the world. Sweat beads streak the back of Harry’s neck, rolling beneath the neckline of his soaked white tee.

The beat slows gradually. Spotlights shine from the ceiling onto the audience until the hall is absent of light but for thin, white rays. The vocalist offers the crowd an ominous, in jest, warning -- “Are you fucking cowards ready to make this a night to remember?” -- and as the hoard of partiers screech in delight, the drummer rises from his stool and swings a rubber mallet into the gong floating above his set. Deep reverberations boom from the copper piece, and it dawns on Tom a second too late that the instrument is magically enhanced, because as the room begins to quiver and shake, savvier (and soberer) attendees take precaution while he’s thrusted forward to the grimy wooden floor of the club.

In the second he lies on the ground, he watches the spotlights whir overhead, spinning more and more violently as the band picks up into a fast-paced techno beat.

“Tom!” Harry shouts, laughing with shock and jerking Tom to his feet.

Is it the ethanol in his bloodstream, or does Harry look as magnificent as Tom thinks? The flashing lights, now tinted green, deepen the natural color of his luxuriant eyes. Interesting eyes, unlike his boring brown. A long nose that curves just so at the end, and a jaw that is square yet soft, epicene.

Tom doesn’t expect what happens next, but falls headfirst into the fallout of his initial hint without a moment’s hesitation. Harry, realizing the intent stare directed at him, leans in and grins with the just-so-curving-nose rubbing against Tom’s chin. Their lips connect softly until Tom gathers a grip on Harry’s belt and roughly pulls, rubbing their groins together while a tongue slips dangerously into the warm, wet haven.

“Not bad,” Harry says upon parting.

The wonder of magic is that even among what should be a gratingly loud uproar, he can hear Harry with perfect clarity.

“My place,” Tom whispers, face impassive but for a playful glint, “or yours?”

Side-Along Apparition is a dreadful experience, but once the pulling of his navel has ceased, Tom grins widely, looks around. “Could do with a cleaning, couldn’t it?”

Harry’s flat is everything Tom expected it to be: cheaply furnished, sparsely decorated, and littered with the occasional take-out box (though a far cry from the sort of filth he observed those years ago in his friends’ dormitories, thank the Almighty). That Harry doesn’t bother to shrug or respond instills a certain understanding in Tom, and it increases the immediacy of his arousal, the strain against his trousers. Their shared gaze breaks when Harry throws his arms around Tom’s neck and recommences where they left off at the club, now sweatier and needier than before.

Tongues connect is passion, sobering Tom somewhat without cutting the edge off his high; only time can completely calm the haze. Soft moans from Harry escape through the corner of his mouth as Tom squeezes Harry wherever his hands desire--the slight shoulders, his firm, sculpted back, his taut arse. The foreplay visibly excites Harry, who throws back his neck in groaning pleasure, a fevered patch growing on his neck. Tom targets the reddening skin and gently sinks his teeth while embracing the smaller man closer. He releases his teeth and sucks the skin soothingly, trailing up to Harry’s mouth and planting a chaste kiss.

“Come this way.”

Harry tilts his head toward the hall and grips Tom’s wrist, guiding him to the small bedroom, which lights with wall-strung candles as soon as the door swings open. Tom is direct, wasting no time and shoving Harry onto the comforter. The green-eyed wizard falls on his back and puts his hands behind his head, peeking down with a cheeky grin. His shirt rides halfway above his abdomen, revealing a scant line of hair that Tom takes with his mouth, dragging his tongue to the rim of denim trousers. Tom arches a brow at the unwelcome presence of Harry’s metallic belt buckle and reaches for his wand.

“Mind if I…?”

“With magic?” Harry questions skeptically, still smiling but with a nervousness about him.

“I’ve been a good student, haven’t I?” Tom responds innocently in faux-modesty.

Harry chuckles, shakes his head like he’s mental for saying, “Yeah, go ahead. I’d be happy to grade your performance.”

Tom swishes the wand -- to the left, up, down sternly -- and murmurs the incantation. The belt readily undoes itself and slides out of the loops, onto the bed in a pile. Tom unbuttons and tugs Harry’s trousers and pants off by hand, feeling it is more intimate and certainly more practical to go about business as a Muggle would, as sex is a trade he’s developed quite well in his years. Harry’s shaft, stiff and leaking, flops out of its restraint and lies along his navel. He starts up the sensitive flesh with long, teasing licks.

“Merlin, fuck,” Harry curses through clenched teeth, hissing with gratitude.

The head of Harry’s cock slides past Tom’s suctioning lips. He tenderly cups the curve of his bollocks and bobs his head, back and forth, at a leisurely speed. Harry’s continued moans are mellifluous in the quiet of the room, the single noise other than the slick gargle of his throat wrapping around the hardened member. It is too good. His own cock is nearly pushing itself through his y-front, prompting him to tear the beltline down to his bent knees and take himself in his free hand and _pull_.

“Fuck,” Harry grunts, “fuck, fuck _, fuck!_ ”

A thick, hot stream of come erupts in Tom’s mouth. He swallows it gratefully and tugs on himself harder, faster, biting his lip and licking what’s left from the corner of his mouth. He stares at Harry’s overheated body, spread out and heaving, glasses askew on his pretty, little face. The finish doesn’t take long, for Tom’s stamina is drained and muscles wilted, desperate for a release. He shudders and ejaculates, pouring onto the shag carpet and thanking the powers that be that he is, of all things, a _bloody wizard_.

“That was brilliant,” Harry laughs, running his fingers through Tom’s artfully gelled black hair. He yawns. “Merlin, I’m knackered.”

“So am I,” Tom breathes as he adjusts his belt, tucking the small lever into its hole. “Perhaps we can try this again sometime. Tip of the iceberg, I suppose.”

Harry’s brows inch closer together. “Going somewhere?”

Tom blinks. “Yes. Home.”

It is far from Tom’s style to play boyfriend with someone he’s just met, even with the circumstances being what they are. He’s drunk, not sixteen.

Harry sits up, snorts. “How’re you getting there, then? We’re not in London, mate.”

“Er,” Tom pauses, hesitant. “I assumed you would Apparate with me.”

“Nah, I’d probably splinch us both. You can stay here. Bed’s big enough for two, I think. Couch if you’re too, ah, yeah…” He shakes his head, frowning. “I mean, you don’t need to stay with me or anything. You can sleep on the couch. I mean. Your choice.”

He really should do that. Attachment to other men is a dangerous practice, and he’s done a damn good job of avoiding it since adolescent woes taught him to approach gentle souls with caution. People like Harry are different, aren’t they? Still, he can’t neglect the twist in his stomach, the almost vulnerable desire to rest, to sleep.

Well, Harry said it himself; it’s his choice.

“Yeah, alright.”

Tom pools his trousers to a heap on the floor. He crawls beside Harry on the bestead and rests on his side, facing the wall.

“It’s all pretty bonkers, isn’t it?” Harry asks groggily, slipping beneath the blanket. “Yeah, why do I ask? It must be. I’m glad I’m the one who got to you first, though. I really needed someone like you around.”

And just like that, the seed is sown. The first few weeks pass with uneasiness and uncertainty, learning more magic and learning new customs and learning things about Harry he never knew he wanted to know about another person, like that he is inclined to talk in his sleep and that, as an adult, calls his mother ‘Mummy.’ The adjustment takes its toll but, at some point, the disquiet lessens, diminishing piece by piece until there’s nothing left to question. Tom is a wizard, and Harry is his partner. He tells Father about it all--his commitment to Harry, permanent abstention from Barclays, and his new employment. He tells him everything _except_ the bit about the magic. Indeed, he pretends his ‘job’ has nothing to do with what it actually entails:

“Bloody hell!” he shouts.

“Tom! Are you alright?” she asks hurriedly.

“Yes!”

“Are you… are you sure?”

The twelfth medical experiment comes three months into the program, and yes, Tom must admit he’s never felt closer to shoving his wand five inches down into Hermione’s gullet. But there’s no time for whinging. He calmly detaches the first slick tendril from the hollow of his temple, the second from his abdomen, the third from his lower back. The wisps speedily whip back into the tip of Hermione’s wand, sliding like a measuring tape snaps back into its roll. Seventh-year Hogwarts observers scribble madly onto their parchment sheets, whispering lowly.

“Can you remember the last question I asked you?” Hermione frowns uneasily.

“I, uh…” Tom furrows his brows, closes his eyes. His mind sinks into a haze.

Shrill shrieks stir back into consciousness and he catches himself mid-faint. “What the hell?”

“Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.” Hermione knocks her wand against her hand, sending small sparks to the floor. “This spell can be a bit intrusive, but I promise it won’t leave any damage. I asked you if you could remember any previous encounters with magic. It tried to go a bit too deep in to your subconscious.”

“Brilliant,” he murmurs sarcastically.

The mug of tea Hermione pushes into his hands is warm with black silk. He sniffs the aromatic steam into his nostrils and slurps a considerable sip, pleased that Hermione has sweetened it to his liking. She has had plenty of time to watch his small reactions to her brews, and now makes the necessary adjustments with ease, achieving the balance of two-and-a-half perfect teaspoons. Much to his dismay, their meetings seem to require moments of respite with increased frequency, her growing more adventurous the deeper her claws sink into the soft hollows of his soul. The impulse does not read as sadistic, so far as he can tell, as her remorseful apologies are delivered with promises for new guidelines. At this second, he thinks it’s quite within reason for him to demand a new request.

“Let’s not use the tendrils anymore, yeah?”

She sighs softly, then nods. “I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

If that were true, they would need to eliminate half of his procedures--daily pinpricking for glucose levels, heart monitoring, invasive mental scouring, weird hallucination scenarios that get jotted down in Hermione’s little black book. And for what? To benefit the next generation of long-lost wizards whose went unclaimed by society at large? His case is allegedly rare in today’s economy, and the crooked-nosed old codger who runs that Hogwarts School claims he’ll increase measures to ensure it never happens under his watch again. He even apologized during dinner at the Potter’s bungalow, as though he was responsible.

It makes Tom wonder.

“Let’s not talk about the study for a minute,” Hermione suggests, sipping from her cup. “How are things with Harry? He says you’ve already learned more arithmancy than he ever could.”

“Oh.” He smiles, waving a dismissive hand and eager to get to another point. “We’re great. There actually _was_ something I wanted to talk to you about, Hermione. I’ve made progress in these past months, and I was curious as to whether there are any openings within your department.”

“Within mine? Well, actually, yes. There is one in Muggle-Wizard communications. It is normally intended for incoming Hogwarts graduate, but I can request a special circumstance. I think Arthur Weasley would be quite happy about it; loves Muggles, the man. He was quite apalled to hear about your circumstance when I told him, so he’d likely find a way to work things through.”

“Thanks,” Tom tells her, eyes falling to the tea.

* * *

He sleeps easily with Harry curled over his bare chest. Dreams dance in his mind, bringing him back to a simpler time, when the scent of Grandmother’s pasties wafted through the vents of the manor and into his room. He dreams of something else, too:

_“Tom, go to your room,” Papa insists. His long fingers are on the knob of the entry door, and his stare tells Tom that whoever is there has no interest in looking at children. Tom grunts and stomps up the stairways, slamming the door behind him angrily._

_Pressing his ear against the door, Tom at first thinks he’ll hear none of what Papa discusses with the associate. Seconds pass and he almost resigns to the laptop on his desk. But then, the voices carry louder and he makes out the exchange._

_“My son has no interest whatsoever in your crackpot school! If you attempt to apprehend him for your purposes, I will promptly alert the authorities and have your criminal establishment shut down.”_

_“Please, sir, if you would just listen. It is important that your son know --”_

_“He already knows,” Papa says stiffly. “He’s being privately tutored by qualified teachers of your kind.”_

_“You mean to say he’s being homeschooled?”_

_“Yes. Now please be on your way. My son is very excited to take his place at Eton and we have no interest in your offer.”_

_The floor seems to shake when Papa pushes the visitor out. Tom snorts, rolls his eyes and saunters to his desk. If one more greedy headhunter tries to recruit him for their second-rate college, he’ll go mental._

Tom never dreams of this again, and doesn’t quite remember that he’s dreamt it until a week passes. He halts in his step up the Ministry corridor. Harry tries to tug him along and questions why he’s stopped.

He shakes his head while muttering, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Hands twine, and the two go about their day; there is much left to accomplish, and the future beckons.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I whole-heartedly recommend you check out the other fics in the Big Bang collection if you haven't already. <3


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